.2 


GIFT   OF 
AUTHOR 


BANCROFT 
LIBRARY 

-c- 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


M.  ROBBINS  LAMPSON 


FBij 

:GFT  ui- F/.  rr          0 

.   .X*. 


AND   OTHER   VERSES 
BY 

M.  ROBBINS  LAMPSON 

jr. 

"For  though  my  rime  be  ragged, 
Tattered  and  jagged, 
Rudely  rayne  beaten, 
Rusty  and  moothe  eaten, 
If  ye  talke  well  therewith 
It  hath  in  it  some  pith." 

— John  Skelton    (1460-1529). 

Copyright,   1916,  by  M.  Robbing  Lampson 

Published  'by 

The  Author  Geyserville,  California 

Price   $0.p    ,   Net. 


DEDICATION 

TO   MISS   ERMINIE   WIEDERSHEIM 


Five 


808887 


uun 


Ml   HHT 


*  ••  2  **'»*.  >         Stttr  ofcurtum 

In  California  there  are  many  winsome  regions,  but  none 
comparable  to  the  valley  prettily  called  Sotoyome. 

It  is  not  to  be  said  that  the  upper  Russian  River  valley 
has  the  noblest  scenery  in  our  state,  nor  the  most  sublime, 
nor  yet  the  most  romantic.  For  we  know  of  the  majesty 
of  Shasta,  of  the  grandeur  of  the  Sierras,  and  of  the  wild 
beauty  of  the  sea  coast.  But  nowhere  is  to  be  found  a 
lyric  loveliness  to  match  this  pleasant  district  with  its 
sweetness  of  nature's  contour,  the  fragrance  of  running 
waters  and  of  growing  things. 

It  would  seem  inevitable  that  this  district,  which  nature 
has  moulded  so  tenderly,  s'hould  in  gratitude  create  a  poet 
or  artist  who  could  sympathetically  interpret  the  delicacy 
of  his  environs  to  the  world. 

Why  the  sap  that  permeates  the  flowers  and  the  trees 
of  Sotoyome,  the  delicate,  glistening  lupin  and  the'  massive 
oaks,  had  not  entered  into  the  blood  of  its  youths  and 
maidens — into  the  brains,  I  might  better  say,  for  physical 
charm  has  its  allure  in  plenty  here — and  inspired  a  poet, 
had  been  to  me  a  matter  of  regretful  wonderment.  But 
one  day,  eight  months  ago,  seated  at  a  newspaper  desk,  I 
opened  a  letter  addressed  to  my  paper  and  postmarked 
Geyserville.  Therein  I  found  a  strain  of  the  sap  of  Soto- 
yome, a  bit  of  verse  of  promise.  The  writer  was  Myrle 
Robbins  Lampson. 

Fortunately  for  me  I  did  not  return  the  verse  with  the 
usual  note  of  rejection  'which  leaves  the  writer  in  a  cul  de 
sac.  But  I  opened  a  correspondence  with  the  youthful 
writer,  and  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  native 
talent  expand  during  less  than  a  year  of  lyric  fecundity; 
his  verse  gain  precision  and  his  imagination  mature,  warm 
and  widen.  Now  it  seems,  my  theory  that  the  Russian 
River  valley  s'hould  produce  a  poet  shall  be  verified. 

While  the  poetic  faculty  achieves  its  perfection  more 
early  than  does  any  other  form  of  art,  it  seldom  attains 
power  that  can  withstand  critical  assault  until  the  writer 
is  in  the  twenties. 

Myrle  'Robbins  Lampson  is  now  sixteen  years  of  age. 
He  has  four  fine  and  fruitful  years  to  go  before  we  may 
even  speculate  upon  the  reac'hes  of  his  talent.  But  we 
know  he  is  a  youth  of  promise,  and  it  is  the  inestimable 
privilege  of  those  of  us  who  have  come  in  contact  with  him 
to  do  what  we  may  to  insure  the  fulfillment  of  that 
promise.  Of  course,  put  to  the  test,  the  fulfillment  and 
the  achievement  lie  finally  and  solely  with  our  young 
friend. 

Here,  however,  is  an  opportunity  which  we  may  never 
have  again  to  encourage  talent  of  'high  promise. 

It  is  needless  cruelty  to  with'hold  adverse  criticism  from 
one  who  is  amenable  to  advice  and  susceptible  to  sugges- 
tion; but  it  is  wanton  blindness  to  ignore  the  essence  of 
beauty  wherever  found. 

The  friends  of  Myrle  Robbins  Lampson  have  discovered 
charm  and  grace  in  his  verses,  and  it  is  their  hope  that 
others  will  find,  too,  a  reflection  in  his  lines  of  the?  loveli- 
ness of  the  valley  which  has  nourished  him. 

ARTHUR  L.   PRICE. 
San  Francisco,  June  1,  1916. 


Six 


FOREWORD 

To  those  who  pay  me  the  compliment  of  reading  these 
youthful  attempts  at  poetry  there  is  little  to  say.  These 
verses  have  no  moral  to  propound,  no  message  to  tell,  no 
great  truths  to  sing.  They  were  written  merely  because 
I  felt  like  writing. 

This  volume,  which  makes  its  appearance  simultaneously 
with  my  graduation  from  high  school,  is  a  souvenir  of  the 
occasion,  as  well  as  a  summing  up  of  seven  years  of 
writing.  There  are  certain  acknowledgments  that  I  feel 
must  be  made,  and  I  make  them  with  pleasure.  To  my 
father  and  mother  I  owe  whatever  talent  I  possess;  to  Mr. 
Harry  K.  Cummings,  my  mentor  for  the  past  five  years, 
I  am  indebted  for  his  interest  and  help  in  my  development. 
To  Mr.  Arthur  L.  Price,  Literary  Editor  of  the  San  Fran- 
cisco "Examiner,"  and  Miss  Ovena  Larson,  my  English 
teacher,  I  am  grateful  for  untiring  criticism  and  advice. 

M.   R.   L. 
Geyserville,  Cal.,  June,  1916. 


IN  LOVING  MEMORY 

of  the  greatest  influence  of  my  life, 

HARRY  K.   CUMMINGS 

Who  died  June  14,  1916. 


Seven 


ON  REACHING  SIXTEEN 
February  2,  1916. 

The  subtle  waves  of  age  move  slowly  on, 
And  I,  lihe  driftw  >od,  follow  with  the  tide. 
Soon   Time   on   Life's    great   shores    so    broad    and    wide 

Will,  cast  me  with  all  boyhood's  bounties  gone. 

What  pity  gladdest  hours  should  e'er  de-part, 
That  flovrers   fade  before  the   ripening  fruit! 
Manhood  before  rue!      Words  themselves  are  mute; 

I  cannot  speak  the  sadness  of  iny  heart. 

I  would  not  leave  the  happy  haunts  I  love; 

I  am  a  monarch  in  my  boyish  bliss; 
Ah,  why  to  further  conquest  must  I  move! 

No  age  can  know  more  joy  than  boyhood's  span; 

No  time  of  later  life  more  sweet  than  this!    ... 
I  do  not  ever  want  to  be  a  man! 


Nine 


THE  OPEN  ROAD 
(Aet.  16) 

(To   my  fellow   students  of   the   Healdsburg  High   School, 
with  whom  I  graduated  June  22,:  1916.) 

The  open  road  to  Manhood  lies  ahead, 

And  I,  though  loath  to  leave  the  paths  of  youth, 

The  ways  that  now  I  love,  shall  ever  love, 

Am  straining  eagerly  to  meet  with  life, 

To  run  my  destined  course,  to  fight  my  fight, 

To  grapple  things  that  ne'er'  disturb  Youth's   play, 

And  be  a  conqueror  with  other  men. 

I  long  to  gain  those  heights  where  I  can  smile 

At  'boyish  victories,  once  held  so  dear, 

And  look  on  them  as  steps  to  my  success. 

Ah,  I  would  laugh  the  hearty  laugh  of  MEN, 

And    march   life    through    with    firm    and    stalwart    tread. 

Then  greatest  tasks  would  spur  my  energy, 

And  years  be  blissful  miles  upon  the  road, 

The  road  that  calls  to  Manhood  and  to  Life! 


Ten 


SONNET 

MARCH 
In  Sonoma  County,   California 

(Aet.  16) 
From  "The  Call,"  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

When   March   has   come,   along  the  quiet   ways, 

Bordered  by  green  with  flowers  overhung, 

I   wander  where  my  spirit  ever  plays; 

Exultingly  I  roam  until  among 

The   fair,    grape-giving   vales,    where   gladness   reigns. 

My  heart,  unbounded,  feels,  when  on  those  hills, 

And  by  the  water's  side,  along  those  lanes, 

With  inner  touch;  the  soul  of  Nature  thrills 

My  being  till  the  senses  all  are  flown; 

In  blissful  solitude,  my  heart  is  one 

With  Nature's  heart,  in  mighty  unison. 

The  wind's  light  song,  the  river's  quiet  moan, 

Seem  but  an  echo  of  the  voice  of  God.    .    .    . 

Lifted  from  earth,  I  tread  where  few  have  trod! 


IN  BLOOM 
(Aet.  15) 

From  "The  Examiner,"  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

Sweet  breaks  the  dawn  of  happy  day 

With  rare  perfume, 
As  calmly  as  the  sun's  last  ray 

Brings  stars  in  June. 
Oh,  glad  the  lark's  wild,  lusty  note, 
Ecstatic  springing  from  his  throat!  — 
The  fields  and  woodlands  are  in  bloom! 

The  orchards   now   with   revelry 

Disperse  all  gloom, 
As  darker  shades  must  ever  flee 

The  bright  full  moon. 

Then  join  your  hearts  with  hearts  of  trees, 
And  sing  the  song  of  birds  and  bees — 
The  fruitful  orchards  are  in  bloom! 


Eleven 


SONNET 

ON  REACHING  ONE 

(Act.  16) 
To  A.  M.  P.,  April  13,  1916. 

In  looking  back,  myself  a  babe  I  view 

In  white  short-dresses,  blue-eyed,  unaware 
Of  all,  save  mother's  loving  touch  and  care. 

I  had  a  noisy  rattle,  bright  and  new, 

And  by  my  dimpled  smile  I  flattered  all. 
What  pretty  shoes  upon  my  feet!      At  one 
I  wondered  at  the  brightness  of  the  sun; 

A  mystery  was  the  clock  upon  the  wall! 

Yet  wondrous  was  the  stride  of  that  one  year, 
For  in   it  I   had   learned   to  recognize. 

I  knew  that  constant  heart,  who  ever  near, 

Held  me  more  dear  t^an  life  she  risked  for  mine; 
Who  fondly  saw  within  my  baby  eyes 

A  spark,  not  yet  quite  lost,  of  life  divine! 


GEYSER  PEAK  AT  NIGHT 

(Act.  16) 

If  you  would  know  a  new  delight, 

New  beauties  all  aglow, 
Behold  the  peak  some  clear  June  night 

When  yet  the  moon  is  low. 
Let  myriad  stars  the  sky  emblaze 

And  quiet  reign  *fr  the  air, 
And  there  exultant  in  the  maze 

The  mount  stands  shimm'ring,  fair; 
Its  slopes  rise  high  above  the  hills 

To  rule  the  night  supreme; 
The    moon's    light    mist    descends,    and    fills 

With  argent,  hazy  gleam 
The  airy  robes  that  crown  the  brow; 

And   through   the  moonlit  bars 
There  twinkles,  far,  serene,  and  low, 

The  halo  of  the  stars. 


Twelve 


SONNET 

OX  READING  WORDSWORTH'S  "TINTERN 
ABBEY" 
(Aet.  16) 

Oft  have  I  roamed  by  streams  and  on  the  hills; 
Long  have  I  loved  them,  ah,  I  long  have  known 
That  wildest  joy  of  woodland  fragrance  blown 

From  vale  to  vale;  and  the  ecstatic  thrills 

That  swayed  my  frame  while  breathing  forest  air; 
Ana  that  refreshing  sound  which  calms  the  soul 
When  brooklets  ripple;  and  the  mighty  roll 

Of  falling  water; — bliss  too  great  to  bear! 

Tiiese  have  I  known,  but  never  could  express 
Wiien  Nature's  presence  dazed  with  loveliness; 
Ana  when  afar  from  grove  and  brook  they  seemed 
Like  half-forgotten  glories  I  had  dreamed. 
But  now  I  hear  what  oft  I  longed  to  tell: 
:»Iy  tongue  was  mute  to  what  my  heart  knew  well. 


POPPIES 

(Aet.  16) 

Poppies,  golden  cups  of  sunshine, 
Golden  bells  of  joy  and  laughter, 
Hanging  from  the  earth  toward  heaven! 


FRAGMENT 
(Aet.  16) 

Distant  and  far 
The   moon   and  the  evening   star 

Shine  out  tonight; 
The    heavenly   'host   is    hidden    in    the    blaze 

Of  silvery  rays, 

So   burning   and   bright; 
Venus  alone  surmounts  the  haze 

Of    argent    light. 


ROSES 
(Aet.  16) 

There  is  a  charm  in  the  roses 
As  soft  as  the  evening  skies, 

As  sweet  as  the  light  that  reposes 
Deep  in  my  lady's  eyes. 


Thirteen 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PEACE 

(Aet.  15) 

Peace! 

Stop  firing  till  your  war-born  sons  grow  up; 
Till  once  again  is  filled  the  hemlock  cup; 
Stop  for  the  sharpening  of  the  scythe  of  Death; 
Stop  while  the  bloody  veterans  get  their  breath; 
Stop  while  your  wives  are  welling  up  more  tears! 
Stop  but  to  rest — this  is  a  peace  of  years; 
Stop  till  the  hounds  of  hell  again  are  loose! 
Stop!    Stop!   this  is  your  peace, — a  truce! 

The  red,  red  blood  within  your  veins 
Cannot  be  held  by  worded  c'hains, — 
Cannot  be  held  'by  Heaven's  reins! 

Peace! 

TO  PATIENCE 
(Aet.  15) 

Long  hours,  long  days,  long  months,  roll  slowly  past,  and 

still 

Like  ceaseless  waves  splashing  against  relentless  rocks, 
Thou  art  unmoved,  for  shores  may  turn  the  wave,  but  not 
Its  perseverance!     Fortitude,  be  with  us  yet! 


ANXIETY 
(Aet.  15) 

The  night  is  endless;   in  the  bleeding  heart 
Pulsates  desire,  and   Hope,  forlorn,   attends. 


THE  POTATO  BLOSSOM 
(Aet.  15) 

A  dearer  beauty  than  in  richer  things  . 

Within  the  common  grows; 
We  fail  to  see  the  flow'r  each  season  brings, 

But  wait  the  fairer  rose. 

We  cannot  find  the  joy  of  rainy  days 

In  waiting  for  the  sun; 
We  miss  the  pleasure  of  the  duller  ways, 

To  gain  a  brighter  one. 

Ambition  should  not  lead  us  thus  away 

From  deeds  of  every  hour: 
Dream  not  of  roses,  while  there  blooms  today 

The  meek  potato  flower! 


THY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE, 

To  Henry  Wieders'heim 

(Aet.  15) 

Thy*  mother's  picture!      Ah,  so  fair! 
'Twas  God,  not  Phidias,  traced  the  hair 
Divinely  winding  round  the  face 
So  full  of  womanhood   and   grace! 


Fourteen 


THE  WAR'S  CRY  TO  WOMANHOOD 

(Aet.  15) 
From  "The  Bulletin,"  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

(Women  in  Europe  are  being  told,  "Bring  children  into 
the  world  for  the  benefit  of  the  Nation,  for  the  strengthen- 
ing of  future  battle  lines!" — Jane  Addams.) 

The  war  sends  out  an  awful  cry 

To  womanhood  upon  the  earth; 
It  does  not  pity  those  who  die, 

Nor  heed  the  living  and  their  dearth; 
It  does  not  look  at,  present  loss, 

Nor  try  the  grim  void  to  refill; 
It  scorns  the  presence  of  the  Cross; 

Its  deadly  fangs  are  never  still : 

To  glut  itself  and  fill  the  crimson  sea, 
War  calls  not  only  us,  but  those  to  be! 

O,  women  of  the  nations,  hark! 

Ye  are  the  wives  within  the  ark! 

For  Noah's  spouse,  and  his  sons'  wives 

Gave  to  the  earth  its  human  lives! 

Ye  must  repopulate  with  men 

This  war-torn  world,  and  answer  w'hen 

I  call,  I  shriek  for  flesh,  for  blood, 

With  thine  own  flesh  through  motherhood! 

O,  women  of  the  nations,  hark! 
Ye  are  the  wives  within  the  ark! 
Fraternal  blood  gained  battle  line; 
Regain  for  man  the  earth  with  thine; 
Ah,  with  thy  blood  fill  future  field, 
So  I  may  gloat  upon  thy  yield! 
And  in  thy  fruit  bring  forth  but  men 
That  I  may  taste  the  feast  again. 

O,  women  of  the  nations,  hark! 
Ye  are  the  wives  within  the  ark! 
Arise  from  out  the  battle  mist, 
And  to  the  croak  of  ravens  list! 
Bear  children!      Ah,  a  future  age 
And  I  demand  our  carnal  wage; 
All  men  I  kill,  I  wound,  I  maim — 
Ye  must  replace!      Forget  the  shame! 

O,  women  of  the  nations,  hark! 
Ye  are  the  wives  within  the  ark! 
Prolong  man's  stay  on  earth!      Men  die! 
Bear  children!  children!  children!      I 
Must  'have  still  greater  sacrifice- — 
These  mangled  corpses  ill  suffice! 
Bear  children!    children!   children!      War 
Am  I,  and  need  more  food,  and  more! 

O,  women  of  the  nations,  hark! 
Ye  are  the  wives  within  the  ark! 

Fifteen 


Ah,  clamour  of  the  vultures'  call, 

Ah,  sensuous,  growing  battle-pall, 

You  are  my  life,  and  I  must  live; 

O,  women  of  the  nations,  give! 

Bring  forth  thy  life-blood,  new  and  fresh! 

I  need  more  flesh!   more  flesh!   more  fles'h! 

O,  women  of  the  nations,  hark! 
Ye  are  the  wives  within  the  ark! 
The  ravens'  cries  are  growing  more, 
And  I  must  feed  my  lust  for  gore! 
Forget  the  teachings  of  the  past — 
That  ye  are  human — to  the  last! 
Forget  those  things  to  memory  dear, 
Forget  of  life  all  that  is  near, 
The  struggle  for  uprighteousness, — 
Forget  all  that,  and  I  will  bless! 
Forget  the  customs  of  the  age; 
Forget,  and  give  to  swell  my  rage!   .. 
Forget  the  child,  the  birthright  due, 
Forget  the  love  of  hus'bands  true! 
Forget  all  but  the  hungry  tide 
Of  blood  that  must  be  satisfied! 

O,  women  of  the  nations,  hark! 
Ye  are  the  wives  within  the  ark! 
Ye  are  my  life,  and  I  must  live; 
O,  women  of  the  nations,  give! 

The  iv  ar  sends  out  an  awful  cry 

To  womanhood  upon  the  earth; 
ft  does  not  pity  those  who  die, 

Nor  heed  the  living  and  their  dearth; 
It  does  not  look  at  present  loss, 

Nor,  try  the  grim  void  to  refill; 
It  scorns  the  presence  of  the  Cross; 

Its  deadly  fangs  are  never  still : 

War  calls  not  only  us,  but  those  to  be, 
To  glut  itself  and  fill  the  crimson  sea! 


POET'S  EPITAPH 

(Aet.  15) 

Friends,  mourn  me  not!      Think  of  me  as  a  bird 
Earth-bound  a  few  short  days,  and  now  set  free. 
The  earth  was  not  my  home:      the  air  was  mine, 
And  once  again  is  mine.     The  songs  I  sang 
Were  sad,   imperfect,   sung  with   fettered  breath- 
How  can  the  fretting,  captive  bird  sing  free! 
But  now — In'  eternal  freshness  of  the  blue, 
And  higher  rising  bliss  and  ecstacies, 
Run  rife  within  my  soul,  for  I  am  free! 
Ah,  now  my  heart  pours  forth  full  melodies, 
So  that  each  moment  of  Infinity 
Is  overflowing, — as  my  heart  has  been. 
Friends,   mourn   me  not,   for   I   am  'happier   now! 


Sixteen 


AGE 

(Aet.  16) 

I  think  today  of  age, — when  I  am  old, — 

And  see  myself  a  helpless,  dirty  man, 

Unkempt,   mouth-oozing  and  ambitionleas. 

I    wonder   what   will    then   amuse   iny    brain, 

What   thoughts?      Will   they  he  t    raghts   of   joy,   or   sad? 

Will  I  see  life  a  s'hipwreels 

Or  harbor-resting  with  its  cargo  home? 

Will  hope  be  gone? 

Ah,   will   I   be   alone, 

Or   blissful   still   with   love? — my   love    will    last! 
And  yet  I   know  that  even  love  sliail   go, 
Or  die,  before  I  die!      My  youth  cries  out: 
"Xay,  love  will  never  die,  until  you  cile, 
And  not  before1!" 

That  it  will  go,  and  w'hat  will  life  be  then? 
A  hollow  shell?      Or  a  coraple 

The  very  fire  and  spirit  of  my  Youth 

Revolts:      I  fear  to  undergo  that  t 

I  shudder  at  recession,  giving  bad 

The  force  and  vigor  of  the  no  en  of  life 

For  that  weak  age  of  saddest  'helplessness; 

I  dread  the  retrogression,  goingk  back 

To  infancy  again;    now  hopeless,  sad, 

For  childhood. knows  but  joy;  the  past  alone 

Will  then  be  mine — Youth  lives  in  future  years. 

I  do  not  think  I  ever  shall  grow  old, 

But  if  I  do,  and  'have  bare,  toothless  gums, 

And  shrunken,  shrivelled  lips,  an        illcw  skin, 

And  forehead  wrinkled  L  ing  joys 

Than  from  the  frowns  of  care  an  1  worried  toil; 

Have  skinny,  bony,  meal  nd  arms, 

And  lose  the  light  of  L 

So  that  the  past,  which  is  the  food  of  age, 

Begins  to  dim;  O,  if  it  comes  to  that — 

Before  it  comes  to  that — why  let  me  die! 


Seventeen 


FOR  THESE 
(Aet,  15) 

I  slept  and  dreamed.     A   moment  chaos  reigned, 
And  then  I  heard  the  rhythm  of  the  spheres, 
The  mighty-moving  work  of  countless  suns. 
The  music  of  the  stars;  and  I  beheld 
Three  spectres  of  another  world,  white-stoled 
In  heavenly  robes  as  light  as  atmosphere: 
Ethereal   breathing;    fair,   but  clouded,  dim 
With  Christliness,  too  fine  for  eyes  of  men; 
Celestial  crowned,  supernal  as  the  stars. 
They  beckoned  me,  and  said,  "For  you  we  come. 
Death  sweeps  o'er  many  lands,  and  thousands  die; 
But  Heaven  has  ordained  that  you,  like  Christ 
Upon  the  Cross,  may  stay  the  bloody  scythe, 
May  still  this  lethal  orgy  with  your  breath, 
And  give  eternal  peace  to  all  mankind: 
Will  you  your  life-blood  give  upon  the  pyre?" 
But  life  and  love  I  loved,  and  answered,  "Nay!" 
And  waking,  shuddered  at  the  grewsome  thought. 

I  slept  and  dreamed,  and  in  my  vision  came 

Again  the  angels,  now  grown  wan  and  sad, 

With  eyes  of  pity,  calling  as  before, 

-For  you  we  come.     Behold  the  battle  dead!" 

— I  heard  again  the  music  of  the  spheres; 

Then  in  that  mechanism  came  a  jar. 

I,  looking  down,  found  not  the  vernal  earth, 

But    there    instead    vast    fields    o'erstrewn    with    mounds, 

And  trenches   overfilled   with   dead,   bones   bleached 

Beneath  the  smoke-red  sun,  and  in  the  mud 

Stark  corpses  rotting — ah,  ten  million  dead, 

In    graves,    and    graveled,    and    unnamed!      Then    cried 

The  Three,   their  sadness  bursting  like   a   dam 

Of  woe,  "Will  you  give  all  upon  the  pyre?" 

But  life  and  love  I  loved,  and  answered,   "Nay! 

These  are  the  dead,  and  I  can  naught  avail! " 

And  waking,  shuddered  at  the  dream  of  death. 

I  slept  and  dreamed,  and  still  again  appeared 

The  Three,  who  pale  and  weak  from  misery 

And  half-abandoned  hope,  called  yet  once  more 

In  doleful,  faltering  tones,  "For  you  we  come. 

Behold  the  agony  of  Man!"     Straightway 

I  wakened,  not  to  life,  but  deeper  dreams, 

And  there,  through  mistless  ether,  undefiled, 

Pellucid,   saw   that   fount   of   wasted   blood, 

The  battle  strife:   men  killing  men,  and  life 

Cut  down  like  wheat  before  the  scythe  of  Death; 

The  battle  din,  and  cannon  roar,   and  men 

In  torture  from  their  gory  wounds,  and  last, 

The  ruined  homes  of  half  the  earth!      My  soul 

Could   not  retain   its   woe,   and   crying,    "Yes!" 

I  turned   to  find   the  Three  were  gone,  and   Christ 

Stood    in    their    stead.      "Sweet    life,    but    sweeter    death 

To  die  for  these!"  I  murmured,  yielding  all 

With  willingness.     But  ere  the  sacrifice 

I  waked  full  sad  at  soul,  because  for  Christ 

And  them  I  could  not  have  that  joyous  pain. 


Eighteen 


AMD  UNAM  SOLAM 
(Aet.  15 ) 

I  love  one  maid,  and  only  one, 
And  oft  I  seek  her  face,  her  smiles, 
And  speak  of  love  when  day  is  done; 
But  ah,  I  cannot  cope  with  wiles 
Such  as  Apollo  might  in  vain 
With  all  his  own  have  sought  to  gain. 

But  I  will  run  the  sun-god's  race, 
And  love,  not  amour,  giving  chase, 
Perhaps  may  win  by  swifter  foot, 
Ere  Daphne  yet  has  taken  root. 


TO  A  SPRING  POET 
(Aet.  15) 

It's  just  a  waste  of  time 
To  try  to  make  a  rhyme 

If  you  don't  know  how. 
Have  pity  on  the  editors — 
Leave  poems  to  competitors, 

If  you  don't  know  how. 

I've  seen  some  awful  rhymes; 
I  think  they're  worse  than  crimes 

I  shudder  at  them  now. 
Grim  shadows  of  them,  senseless, 
With  me  alone,  defenseless, 

Flit  before  my  brow. 

O  poet  of  the  spring, 
Forget  that  you  can  sing — 

Aye,  forget  it  now. 
Have  mercy  on  the  editors — 
Leave  poems  to  competitors. 

If  you  don't  know  how. 


WASHINGTON 
(Aet.  15) 

Aye,   hail   with   pride   our   first   and    foremost   man, 
Who  saw  true  justice  in  a  human  light, 
And  with  a  force  and  firmness  fed  by  right, 
Led  forth  our  nation  from  t"he  gloom  of  night; 
Who  bravely  fought  with  Heaven's  potent  might. 

And  mounted  o'er  the  mist  to  work  God's  plan! 

From  out  drear  despotism's  darkness  rose 

A  man  of  noble  mien  and  sturdy  face; 

Whose  eyes  sweet  Justice  lit  with  kindly  grace; 

In  whom  dishonor  never  found  a  place; 

Whose  wake  left  us  a  mighty,  free-born  race 
With  greater  liberties  and  calm  repose. 


Nineteen 


INDIAN  SUMMER 
(Aet.  15) 

From  "Every woman,"  San  Francisco 

The  mists  of  morn  first  caught  the  ray 

Of  the  oncoming  sun, 
And  sped  it  on  like  a  gossip  story 

Till  light  and  earth  were  one. 
Then  the  sun  rose  up  in  glory 
As  it  neared  the  southern  summits  day  by  day; 

It  found  long  shadows  fast  asleep 
From    yestereven's    play; 

It  made  the  golden  splendors  leap 
Along  the  mountainway, 
And  dance  as  the  cool  winds  whispered  by; 

It  glanced  o'er  the  tree-topped  hills, 

And  sought  the  hearts,  of  trickling  rills 
As  it  leaped  into  the  sky. 
And  the  red  orb  mounted  higher, 

And  viewed  the  valley's  deepest  glen; 
The  distant  peaks  all  lost  their'  fire, 

And  changed  to  hazy  blue  again; 
The  eastern  sky  threw  off  its  rosy  strife, 

And  turned  to  azure  and  to  thoughts  of  day. 
The  forests  rang  with  feathered  life, 

And  the  deer  hid  her  spotted  fav/n  away. 
The  cool  winds  changed  to  zephyrs  fair, 

Which  roamed  through  grass  and  leafy  bough; 
They  sought  the  brook  and  long  played  there, — 

They  went  to  cool  the  mountain's  brow. 
Then  was  the  time  when  the  Indian 

Was  glad  as  he  roamed  the  wild, 
For  Nature  loved  this  homely  man, 

And  onj  him  gently  smiled. 

The  air  that  he  breathed  was  the  breath  of  God, 
And  he  drew  it  deep  as  the  carefree  can. 
He   roamed   o'er   the   paths   by   sin    untrod, 
And  as  he  moved  in  a  listless  way, 

He  came  to  an  open  glade, 
Where  the  sun  sent  full  her  illumined  ray 

Near  where  a  small   brook  played. 
Here  was  the  rough-tilled  soil  instead  of  sod, 

Here  grew  the  green  and  Heaven-sent  corn, — 
Hiawatha's  spirit  stirred  in  every  clod, 

The  waving  maize,  Mondamin,  combat  worn. 

It  was  the  Indian  summer,  and  the  calm 
Of  dying  June  slept  in  the  hazy  atmosphere. 

The  Indian  sadly  yearned  for  the  happy  past,  but  the  balm 
Of  the  earth  and,  air  were  greater  still, 
And  in  the  savage  eye  there  rose  a  tear. 
Then  like  a  man  whom  joys  bereave  of  will, 

Inspired   he   roamed   through  virgin   air,   on   virgin   sod, 

Hand  in  hand  with  the  Infinite  and   God. 

It  jg,  the  Indian  summer,  and  the  heart 

Of  all  mankind  is  glad. 
From  the  fevered  pulse  of  the  city  mart 

To  the  country's  freest  barefoot  lad, 
From  the  shore  where  the  wild  waves  dash  and  part 

Twenty 


To  the  dell  where  the  poplar  murmurs  sweet  and   sad  I 
It  is  the  Indian  summer,  and  the  soul 

Of  the  world  turns  to  the  open,  the  free, 
And  the  heart  is  pure,  as  the  mind  is  whole, 

As  it  basks  in  the  warmth  of  eternity! 


NO  SORROW,  XO  REGRET 

(Aet.  16) 

I  loved  you  once,  andj  that  sweet  loving 
Made  me  tread  these  hours  on  air; 

That  love  is  past,  and  you  forgotten, 
You  so  fickle,  yet  so  fair. 

I  loved  you  once,  and  memory,  waning, 
Holds  as  though  a  dream  tha-  joy; 

But  then  I  knew,  and.  you,  inconstant, 
Felt  a-  bliss  without  alloy. 

I  loved  you  onsey— i     v  stars  of  memory 
— With  that  sun  forever  set — 

Are  shining,  soon  to  lose  thsir  lustre 
To  a  s^ 


I  loved  yon  once — there  is  no  longing 

For  the  past  beyond  recall; 
Nor  would  I  l:aTe  my  life  dissevered 
i'rom  cue  moment  of  it  all! 


TO  AN  EDELWEISS 
(Aet.  16) 

Here  is  a  dainty  edelweiss, 

Sent  v.'itli  a  message  in  the  mail* 
Cnee  star-faced  guardian  of  the  ice, 

Now  I  behold  it,  white  ana  frail, 

-hire  cliff  of  its  mountain  home. 

Fair  maiden  of  the  Alpine  snoT/, 

Do  you  rniss  the  mountain's  chillness  here? 
Do  you  long  to  be  where  lichens  grow, 

And  be  caressed  by  frosty  air, 
Across  the  bold  Atlantic's  surging  fcam? 

Between  these  pages  ever  laid, 

'here  but  admiring  eyes  shall  look, 
Ah,  what  a  change*  my  pretty  maid — 

The  Alpine  ranges  for  a  book! 
Ah,  may  you  ever  feel  the  playing  wind 

On  some  bare  glacier's  rugged  form, 
Where  you  clung  silent  and  alone, 

Breasting,  the  mountain's  icy  storm; 

And  may  these  western  joys  atone 
For  all  the-  loves  that  you  have  left  behind! 


Twenty-one 


SONNET 

COLUMBUS— 1915 
(Aet.  15) 

Columbus,   would  that  thou  today  couldst  view 
This  land  of  thine,  these  nations  of  the  West, 
The  fruit  thy  hand  brought  forth   as  Man  progressed, 

Time's  great  reward  to   those  that  rise  and  do. 

Befaold  two  continents  in  splendors  young. 
Thy  reason  persevered  and  gave  us  much; 
These  lands,  these  nations  felt  thy  magic  touch! 

Would   now   thy   eyes   could   see,   and   speak,   thy   tongue! 

O  father  of  the  western  hemisphere, 

Not  thou  the  one  who  died  in  poverty, 
But  one  whom  all  the  world  Shall  e'er  revere! 
Thy  master  mind  gave  greater  lands  a  birth — 

They  e'er  in  gratitude  shall  say  of  thee, 
"Columbus!      Lo,  he  gave  Man  half  the  earth!" 


TWO  POEMS  ON  CHARLES  FROHMAN 
(Aet.  15) 

(Charles  Frohman,  the  theatrical  manager,  was  one  of 
the  victims  of  the  "Lusitania"  disaster.  When  a  boy  "he 
wrote  in  his  scrap  book,  "The  whole,  the  boundless  earth 
is  mine."  He  was  heard  to  say,  as  the  "Lusitania"  was 
sinking,  "Why  fear  death?  It  is  the  most  beautiful  ad- 
venture of  life!") 

I. 

YOUTH 

The  whole,  the  boundless  earth  is  mine, 
Its  fame,  its  sorrows,  joys  and  sighs; 

The  whole,  the  boundless  earth  is  mine, 
And  all  that  therein  lies! 

Life's  path  is  glowing  bright  ahead, 

Lit  with  the  ardor  of  my  years; 
I  will  that  I  shall  rise  and  tread 

Alone  above  my  peers! 


The  world  was  mia^— now  I  the  sea's; 

The  great  adventure  comes  at  last. 
Life  must  ^greater  wish  appease, — 

My  victory  is  past. 

I  reached. the  heights  my  yearning  sought, 
Gained  all  earth  held  in  store  for  me. 

All  boyish  dreams  my  manhood  wrought — 
Now  immortality! 


Twenty-two 


MR.  GERMS 
(Aet.  14) 

(Headline — "Germs   Like    Boys   Better   Than    Girls.") 

I'm  glad  that  someone  likes  us  best, 
And  though  I  never  knew  before, 

He  must  be  awful  nice,  and  jest 

The  best  old  guy.      Gee,  Sis  was  sore!- 

When  she  saw  that,  she  got  so  mad 

She  fussed  and  raved  about,  and  Dad- 
Well,  that  jest  made  him  laugh  and  roar! 

You  bet!      My  dad's  a  friend  of  mine, — 

The  only  one  I  got,  I  s'pose, 
Excepting  Mr.  Germs.     He's  fine! 

I  know  he'll  never  kick  when  clothes 
Are  torn,  and  yaller  cats  git  hung, 
And  all  the  dolls'  old  necks  git  rung. 

They'll  like  us  boys  in  time,  who  knows? 


THE  FARMER'S  COW 

(Aet.  15) 

A  farmer  who  to  fair  had  led 

A  handsome  cow,  obscurely  bred, 

Awaited  near,  with  sparkling  eyes, 

Well   knowing   HE    would   win    the    prize. 

He  saw  the  judges  hesitate, 

And  thought,  "Oh  w'hy  deliberate! 

My  cow  must  surely  lead  the  rest; 

You  must  be  blind  for  she  is  best!" 

The  judges  finally  contrive 
To   place  his   cow  as   number   five. 
The  farmer's  anger  rises  swift, 
But  "idiot"  judges  hold  to  fifth. 

The  farmer  said,  indignant,  proud, 
His  angry  tones  none  less  the  loud, 

"I'd  like  to  know,  you  judges  wise, 
Just  why  I  didn't  win  first  prize?" 
One  answered,  farmer  little  heeding, 

"Like  you,  dear  sir,  she  lacks   good   breeding! 


T0 


(Aet.  15) 

I   saw   two   lips,   sweet   lips,   today,  — 
Lips  I  would  like  to  kiss  in  love; 
And  they,   like  thine,  could  lightly  move, 

But  ah,  the  eyes  were  far  too  gay! 

I  saw  a  girlish  chin,  like  thine, 
But  ah,  the  face,  —  too  full  of  fun: 
It  beamed  when  even  play  was  done, 

With  ne'er  thy  seriousness  divine,' 


Twenty-three 


SUNSET,  TWILIGHT  AND  DARK 
(Aet.  15) 

Sunset!  the  dusk,  and  then  the  milder  moon, 
On  which  the  sun  still  grandly  shines,  to  be 
Reflected  on  the  earth,  a  memory 

Of  all  the  brilliant  day  and   brighter  noon! 

Twilight! — t'iie   afterglow   of  setting   sun; 
A  period  duller  than  the  darker  night, 
Of  shadows  got,  yet  born  of  midday  light, — 

The  transient  sadness  that  the  day  is  done! 

The  dark! — twilig'iit  and  sunset  o'er  too  soon, 
But  e'er  in  memory  shine  the  golden  rays. 
Look  not  to  earth, — to  heaven  turn  your  gaze: 

There  beams  the  sunlight,  mirrored  in  the  moon! 


SONNET 

THE  WORD  "BOY" 
(Aet.  15) 

To1  MISS  B.  M.  R.,  who  suggested  the  idea. 

Boy!   Heaven's  harps  ne'er  struck  a  'happier  chord 

Than  when  their  ardor  twanged  thy  blissful  birth; 

No1  sweeter  sound  e'er  echoed  on  the  earth 
Than  when  thou  came  to  dwell,  O  rapturous  word! 
What  in  t'hy  too  short  self  is  hidden  stored, 

What  well  loved  things:     All  childhood's  care-free  mirth; 

All  youthful  dreams  of  manhood's  greater  dearth; 
Boyhood  itself,  and  all  its  'homely  'hoard! 

What  scenes  beloved  are  thought  of  when  thou'rt  told!  — 

The  comrade-father  speaking  to  his  son; 
The  loving  mother's  hearty,  laughing  scold; 
The  aged's  counsel;   playmate's  call  of  joy! 

O  word  of  mirth,  of  sorrow,  all  in  one, 
Of  life  and  truth,  robust  and  tender:      Boy! 


SONNET 

THOU  ART  A  FLOWER  FROZEN  IN  THE  ICE 
(Aet.  15) 

Thou  art  a  flower  frozen  in  the  ice, 

Which    cle-ar,    translucent,    shows    thy    beauteous    form, 

Thy  face  so  fair,  'Uhy  lips  so  red  and  warm, — 
Thyself  the  soul  of  all  that  can  entice. 
But  kissing  through  a  glass  will  not  suffice: 

I  would  enfold  thee  in  my  anxious  arms, 

Though   in   the   wilting   warmth   were   lost   t'hy   charms, 
As  droops  before  the  sun  the  edelweiss. 

Thou  never  shalt  be  mine,  but  I  must  stay 
And   gaze  with  ardor  on  the  loveless  lost, 

Till  thou  art  won  in  some  more  subtle  way, 

By  more  magnetic  "hands,  but  not  more  bold. 
Once  will  I  grasp  thee — be  what  will  the  cost — 

Ah!  thou  art  'beautiful,  but  O,  so  cold! 

Twenty-four 


MADRIGAL 
(Aet.  15) 

Little  girl  in  frock  of  blue, 

It  was  sweetness  Venus  dealt  in 
When  she  made  and  sent  us  you! 

Heaven  were  the  home  you  dwelt  in, 
With  your  face  so  void  of  care; 

Giv'n  a  choice  to  voice,   I'll  do  it: 
Live  with  you  forever  there, 

And  never  rue  it! 


IN  MEMORIAM  OF  B.  Dr  A. 
(Aet.  15) 

O,    much    respected,    loved,    and    honored    friend, 
We  pay  a  true  and  lasting  gratitude, 
That  must  for  long  prevail,  be  oft  renewed, 

Remain  until  our  dearest  memories  end. 

What  joys  of  life  must  earth  'have  given  you! 
The  care-free  conscience  of  the  just  and  kind, 
The   loftier   plane   of   noble,    higher   mind, 

The  thoughts  of  those  who  toil  and  rightly  do. 

Unerring  as  the  eagle's  aerial  flight 

Thy    august   course   of   godly   life   has    been, 
Aware    of    earth's    foul    strife,    to    truth    full    keen, 

And    living   pure,   aspiring   e'er   to    right! 


RECESSIONAL 

(Written  at  the  closing  of  the  Panama-Pacific  Interna- 
tional Exposition  at  San  Francisco,  December  4,   1915.) 

The  sun  has  set,  the  day  is  done; 

Time  moves  with  his  unvarying  pace; 
The  minstrel's  dead,   his  course  is  run, 

And  e'en  his  smile  has  left  'his  face. 

The  ships  set  sail,  and  trains  depart; 

The  husbandman  'has  gone  to  plow. 
A   "Hail,   farewell!"   from   every   heart, 

And  all  are  homeward  turning  now. 

The  joy  and  pomp  of  yesterday 

Are  like  great  Athen's,  glory  gone; 
This   fairer  city   falls   away 

As  even  mighty  Rome  passed  on. 

Back!    ye  toilers,  play  is  o'er; 

Back  to  your  loves,  your  lands  of  birth; 

Back  to  your  shops,  your  fields  once  more- 
Back  to  your  homes  o'er  all  the  earth ! 


Twenty-five 


SONNET 

PRESENTIMENT  OF  LOSS 
(Aet.  16) 

I  wander  out  in  the  great  night,  alone, 
One  of  a  mighty  company  of  things 
Of  giant  size.      Now  silent  whisperings 

Tell  me  I  am  a  brother,  newly  thrown 

Into  companionship  with  all  the  skies, 

The  'hills   and   rivers,   and   the   towering  trees, 
And  all  the  stars.     My  heart,  despite  all  these, 

Feels  a  great  void;   its  spirit  cannot  rise. 

O'erhead   and   far   there   gleam   the   stars,    clothed    deep 
In   mystery;    and   the   night   is  oddly  strange; 

The  river's  weird  enchantings  never  change. 

On  shipless,   soundless  oceans  am   I  tossed: 

My  soul's  foreboding  fears  that  o'er  me  sweep 

Are   uttered  in  one  gasp  of  moaning,  "Lost!" 


SONNET 

KEATS  AND  SHELLEY  SLEEP  IN  ROME 
(Aet.  16) 

Both  Keats  and  Shelley  sleep  in  distant  Rome! 

Ah,  England,  never  did  they  wish  it  so. 

In  Britain  they  were  born,  there  grew  to  know 
And  learned  to  love  their  rugged  island  'home. 
When  wild,  romantic  ;blood  sent  them  to  walk 

Neath   southern   skies,   and   Fate,   with   hapless   blow, 

Stopped  short  their  breath:  they  did  not  'homeward  go, 
But  rest  afar  from  Albion's  cliffs  .of  chalk. 

Let  not  their  ashes  languish  in  the  sun 

'Mid  Adriatic  warmth;   they  did  not  c'hoose 
Their  dying  place.     Eternity  is  one 
With  life  to  mem,  the  Isles  their  guiding  star! 

They  loved  the  North;   you,  England,   must  they  lose 
Forever?      Take  them  where  their  spirits  are! 


LONGING 
(Aet.  15) 

Away  to  the  air,  O  my  soul,  today, 

Away  in  thy  flight,  O  my  thoughts,  with  thee, 

Where  nothing  is  in  strife's  array, 

And  naught  to  greet  the  memory. 

Away  to  the  wild,  O  my  breath,  today, 
Away  to  the  'hillside's  beauty  free, 
Where  God  and  Nature  join  their  sway 
And   there  is   peace   eternally. 


Twenty-six 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  GERMAN 
OF  THEODOR  STORM 

THREE  POEMS  FROM  "IMME'NSEE" 
(Aet.  15) 

I. 
"Hier  an   der  -Bergeshalde" 

Here  on  the  green  hillside, 
Mid  breezes  cool  and  mild, 

And  branches  hanging  low, 

There  sits  the  beauteous  child. 

She  sits1  among  the  thyme, 
Bathed  in  its  fragrance  rare. 

The  blue  flies  gently  hum 
And  sparkle  through  the  air. 

The  wood  scf  silent  stands, 

And  she  appears  so  fine, 
As  on  her  flowing  locks 

There  falls  the   bright  sunshine. 

The  cuckoo  calls  from  far, 

And  thus  sings  to  my  mind, 
"Behold  her  golden  eyes, 

Queen  of  the  forest-kind!" 

II. 

"Heute,  nur  'heute 
Bin  ich  so  schoen" 

I  am  so  beautiful 

Only,  ah,  only  today; 
Tomorrow  my  charms 

Have   all    passed    away. 
For  only  an  hour 

Are  you  still   my   own; 
Die,  ah,  die 

Must  I  alone! 

III. 

"Er   waere  fast  verirret" 

He  had  nearly  lost  his  way, 

And  knew  not  where  to  roam, 

But  a  c'hild  then  crossed   his  way, 
And  led  his  footsteps  home. 


Twenty-seven 


THE  NORTH  WIND  BLOWS 
(Aet.  16) 

The   north   wind   blows — what   a   feast  to   feel 
The  frozen  breath  and  the  biting  chill, 

As  it  strikes  and  stabs  like  cold  blue  steel; 
I  stand  aghast  at  the  joyous  thrill! 

The  north  wind  blows,  and  the  rushing  blast 
Comes  full  in  my  face  as  I  breast  the  gale. 

Would  that  the  joy  could  ever  last, — 

So  dear  to  the  blood  that  is  "hardy  and  hale! 

Cold  as  it  rushes,  wildly  mad, 

Strong  and  fresh  from  the  mountain  snows, 
The  north  wind  blows,  and  I  am  glad; 

My  heart  is  alive  when  the  north  wind  blows! 


THE  MOLE 
(Aet.  15) 

As  I  was  sitting  in  the  barber  c'hair, 
Losing  part  of  my  abundant  hair, 
The  barber  chattered  in  his  funny  way; 
'Twas  pleasing — this  was  what  he  had  to  say: 
(He  said  it  in  a  drawling  tone,  and  droll, 
For  all  the  interest  centered  on  a  mole!) 

"I  'had  a  patient,  other  day,   who  says, 
'I  never  met  in  all  my  living  days, 
A  barber  who  could  keep  his  razor  clear 
Of  that  small  mole  right  back  of  my  left  ear!' 

'I  can,'  says  I,  and  mixed  the  lather  well, 
While  giving*  him  a  joke  I  had  to  tell. 

'What's  this  you  say,'  says  I,  'steer  clear  that*  mole? 
That's  what  the  pirate  said  to  save  his  soul, 
When  his  good  ship,  the  >/Lizzie/r  cruised  too  near. 
All  right,  sir!     Yes,  sir!     Right^behind  your  ear!' 
And  then  I  let  my  well-honed  razor  glide 
O'er  'his  left  cheek,  and  o'er  the  other  side. 
The  fellow  then  sat  up  to  bare  his  neck; 
Ere  I  began  he  held  my  hand  in  check, 

'There's  double  pay  in  this  for  you,'  says  he, 

'To  s'have  the  back  and  let  the  mole  be  free.' 

'You're  just  my  size,'  says  I,  and  then  began. 
How  smoothly  o'er  his  skin  my  razor  ran! 
I  shaved  the  right  side,  then  I  shaved  the  left, 
When  lo!  behold!  the  mole  clear  off  was  cleft! 
I  nearly  swore — ill  would  have  been  the  word! — 
The  customer,  he  neither  spoke  nor  stirred! 
I  grabbed  the  caustic,  quickly  rubbed  it  on, 
And  shaved  right  care-ful-ly  till  he  was  done. 

'Fine  work,  my  boy,'  says  he,  ''Here's  thrice  the  pay! 
You  are  the  first  to  do  the  job  this  way!'  " 

The  barber  laughed  and  looked  up    toward  the  wall; 

I  yelled,  as  might  have  turned  his  heart  to  gall. 
"What's  wrong?"  says  he,  "A  cut  upon  the  ear! 

It's  all  right  now;  I  keep  this  caustic  near!" 

Twenty-«ight 


A  LULLABY 

TO  THE  EVENING  STAR 
(Aet.  15) 

O  evening  star, 

In  the  sky  so  far, 

Are  your  thoughts  as  bright 
As  your  radiant  light 

That  ends  too  soon? 

Do  you  envy  the  moon 
In  her   glorious   state, 
Or  is  she  too  great 
For  a  love  or  a  "hate? 

Does  each  moonlit  bar 

Your   brilliance  mar, 

As  you  wander  afar? 

O  evening  star, 

In  the  sky  so  far, 

Do  you  cede  to  the  morn 
Your  queenhood   forlorn 
With  a  twinkle  of  scorn, 

Or  give  it  in  mirth 

To  day  on  the  earth? 

Do  you  give  o'er  your  place 
With  a  queenlike  grace, 
And  gaze  on  the  face 

Of  your  king,  the  sun, 

The  rega\  one, 

When  the  night  is  done? 

0  evening  star, 

As  you  wander  far, 

On  your  path  in  the  sky — 

Ah,  your  winking  eye! 
Are  you  sleepy?     Tell! 
And  wink  farewell; 
Your  bewitching  spell 

Has  me  in  your  power! 

Ah,  late  is  the  hour! 

1  am  sleepy,  I — 

Are  you  leaving  the  sky? 
O,  must  you  die? 
Good-bye!      Good-bye! 

O  evening  star, 

As  you  wander  far! 


SHE 
(Aet.  15) 

She  is  a  lovely  lass,  this  maid  of  mine, 

With   light   brown   hair  and   eyes   that   always   shine: 

Oh,  joy  divine  to  "have  those  tresses  flow 

Near  me,  and  let  her  feel  the  love  I  know! 


OUR  SWIMMING  HOLE 
(Aet.  16) 

It  wasn't  a  river  a  half  mile  wide, 

That  flowed  abreast  to  the  ocean  tide; 

It  wasn't  a  beach  where  the  billows  roll: 

In  a  sparkling  creek  was  our  swimming  hole! 

No   crowds   of   the    city    defiled    its    banks; 
It  knew  not  the  bounds  of  the  social  ranks; 
Here  culture  had  made  no  rising  scale: 
We  were  all  of  us  barefoot,  tanned,  and  hale. 

We   had  the   same   work   and   had   the  same   joys, 

And  what  is  more,  we  were  all  of  us  boys. 

We  had  the  same  woods,   same  'hills,   same  fields, 

And    the    same    swimming    hole,    and    the    joy    it    yields. 

We  had  the  same  woes,  same  'hate  for  the  school, 

But   this  we  forgot  in   the   old   swimming   pool. 

It  wasn't  a  river  a  half  mile  wide, 

That  flowed  abreast  to  the  ocean  tide; 

It  wasn't  a  'beach  where  the  billows  roll: 

In  a  sparkling  creek  was  our  swimming  hole! 


WHEN  CELIA  SPOKE 
Rondeau 
(Aet.  16) 

When  Celia  spoke,  her  cigarette, 

Between  her  lips  in  dalliance  set, 

Moved  up  and  down  with  measured  stroke, 
While  words  fared  forth  on  wings  of  smoke- 

Ah,  words  that  I  shall  ne'er  forget! 

If  in  my  work  or  play  I  fret, 
That  memory  is  an  amulet, 

And  I  forgive  what  made  me  choke 
When  Celia  spoke. 

My  thoughts  were  fond,  my  eyes  were  wet, 

And  tears  flowed  like  a  rivulet. 
But  truth  I  will  not  ever  cloak: 
I  loved,  but  could  not  stand  the  smoke; 

I  had  to  leave,  though  with  regret, 
When  Celia  spoke! 


Thirty 


O  SWEET,  MY  MAID 
(Aet.  16) 

O  sweet,  my  maid,  as  I  wander  'here 

Beneath  this  leafy  bough, 
Ah,  greater  far  would  be  my  bliss 

Were  you  but  with  me  now. 

The  fields  are  bright,  the  hills  are  fair, 

And  the  sky  so  softly  blue, 
But  none  of  these,  my  lovely  maid, 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  you. 

Now  gay  are  the  flowers,  now  green  the  world, 

But  tomorrow  the  earth  is  bare; 
With  summer  they  fade,  but  you  are  true; 

Ah,  you  are  forever  fair. 


AMBITION 
(Aet.  15) 

I  live  within  a  little  home, 
Walled  in  on  every  side  by  hills; 
My  streets  are  forests'  leafy  loam, — 
I  wander  there  as  random  wills. 
The  trees  my  sole  companions  are, 
Save  one  by  night,  th©  evening  star. 
I  know  the  joy  of  mountainside, 
Of  seas  of  green,  blue  skies  and  wide. 

Of  all  the  gifts  that  life  can  give, 
I  strive  for  one  that  outlives  age: 
Not  for  great  honor  while  I  live, 
Nor  lauds  of  men  that  ill  presage 
The  depth  of  immortality; 
But  in  the  realm  of  poesy 
Some  niche  may  I  e'er  fondly  claim, 
Wherein  to  humbly  write  my  name. 

But  will  my  name  e'er  gain  that  state; 
Ah,  will  it  reach  beyond  these  "hills? 
Will  that  desire  e'er  consummate, 
And  songs  of  mine  give  nations  thrills? 
Ah,  hills,  that  bind  life  closely  in, — 
Not  insurmountable!      I  win 
If  I  shall  rise  above  the  earth, 
And  living,  gain  immortal  birth! 


Thirty-ona 


INDEX 
ON  REACHING  SIXTEEN 

AND  OTHER  VERSES 

Page 

Dedication    5 

Introduction   6 

Foreword    7 

Poems — 

On  Reac'hing  'Sixteen   .  .  . 9 

The  Open  Road   10 

March,  In  Sonoma  County 11 

In  Bloom 11 

On  Reaching  One 12 

Geyser  Peak  At  Night 12 

On  Reading  Wordsworth's  "Tintern  Abbey" 13 

Poppies 13 

Fragment    13 

Roses    13 

The  Truce  of  Peace 14 

To  Patience   14 

Anxiety 14 

The  Potato  Blossom   14 

Thy  Mother's  Picture 14 

The  War's  Cry  to  WomanTiood    IB 

Poet's  Epitaph 16 

Age   17 

For  These 18 

Amo  Unam  Solam 19 

To  a  Spring  Poet 19 

Washington    19 

Indian  Summer    20 

No  Sorrow,  No  Regret 21 

To  An  Edelweiss 21 

Columbus — 1915    22 

Two  Poems  on  Charles  Frohman   22 

Youth 

Age 

Mr.   Germs    . 23 

The  Farmer's  Cow    23 

To  23 

Sunset,  Twilight  and  Dark 24 

The  Word  "Boy" 24 

Thou  Art  a  Flower  Frozen  In  the  Ice 24 

Madrigal 25 

In  Memoriam  of  B.  D.  A 25 

Recessional 25 

Presentiment  of  Loss 26 

Keats  and  Shelley  Sleep  In  Rome 26 

Longing     26 

Translations  From  German   27 

Poems  from  "Immensee" 

1.  Hier  an  der  Bergeshalde 

2.  Heute,  nur  heute 

Bin  ich  so  schoen' 

3.  Er  waere  fast  verirret 

The  North  Wind  Blows 28 

The  Mole    28 

A  Lullaby  To  The  Evening  Star   29 

S-he    29 

Our  Swiming  Hole 30 

When  Celia  Spoke 30 

O  Sweet,  My  Maid 31 

Ambition  ..31 


